Page 18 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“The partner match is how we’ll get consumer buy-in, build buzz, and scale MASH into something shiny enough to catch Celeritas’s eye.” Evelyn clicks to the next slide, where someone’s pasted Miller’s yearbook photo in next to mine. And seeing us there, grafted together like two halves of a whole, makes my brain go entirely blank. I stop thinking about MASH’s marketing, the promises we’ll make, anything at all. Miller’s face stares back at me from the wall: his guarded blue eyes, the freckled bridge of his nose, the indecipherable slant of his smile.
“You two will be our proof point,” Evelyn says, and I finally blink. “Ro is quickly becoming the face of MASH on social, and soon we’ll start scheduling media interviews. Our hope is that you’ll be by her side for all of it, and that together you’ll show the world just how well MASH works.”
Both of us look at Miller, but he’s still staring up at the screen. At our two pictures there together, side by side.
“Felix Gutierrez will be your guide,” Evelyn says, gesturing to the guy in the palm-tree shirt. He offers a sharp little wave. “He’s going to handle your media training, plus considerations like wardrobe that may come up as we go along. We’ll have the two of you start with some public appearances, nothing formal, and post a few things to social media. Then we’ll book you for an interview here in Denver at the end of September.”
Evelyn looks between us. “If that’s all tracking so far, we can get into specifics.”
Wordlessly, Miller nods.
The next slide is a list of bulleted sentences, each one pressing my ribs tighter and tighter against my lungs.
Unscripted public appearance (e.g., ice cream, hiking, museum visit)—1x/week
Social media posts to @rodev—2x/week
Social media posts to @MASHapp—1x/week
TV, radio, print interviews—as opportunities arise
I stop reading when it gets truly painful to breathe.Ice cream?Miller’s eyes are still on the screen. Willow’s face is pinched with worry, but when she leans close to whisper something in Miller’sear, he just shakes his head.
“This is an initial list Felix put together,” Evelyn says. “He’ll walk you through all of it, and we can make adjustments as necessary.”
Silence falls at the table. I resist the urge to stare down at my hands, remind myself that this ismyapp. My meeting.
“Miller,” Evelyn prompts. “Tell us what you’re thinking. What can we do to get you on board?”
Miller looks at Evelyn. In that same, even voice, he tells her, “I want forty-seven thousand dollars.”
I’d been running a thumbnail over my knuckle, and I press so hard the skin splits.
Evelyn blinks. “That’s a very specific number.”
I look at Willow, who’s watching her son. On top of the table, her hands are squeezed together so tightly her fingertips have gone white.
“Enough to cover half my college degree after financial aid,” Miller says. I wonder how much they talked about this, if they spent all weekend strategizing what they could get out of me.Fair is fair, I think. I’m trying to get something out of him, too.
“Understood,” Evelyn says. She rises from the table. “Give me just a moment to make a phone call.”
The room is underwater-silent while she’s gone. Nothing moving, the five of us like amber-trapped bugs waiting for the verdict.
“All right.” Evelyn returns less than five minutes later, reclaiming her seat.
Miller speaks first. “Who were you talking to?”
“The head of the board in Mountain View,” Evelyn says. “She has an idea.”
She, I think. You love to hear it.
“How about this.” Evelyn looks at Miller, and he looks right back. His posture is relaxed, like this is the last thing that matters to him in the whole entire world. “We’ll pay for your degree,” Evelyn says. “All of it.Ifwe get the funding from Celeritas. Otherwise, nothing.” She points between Miller and me. “You’ll have to sell this.”
Miller doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even flinch. “Deal,” he says. Confident, I realize, not in me, but in his own ability to pull this off.
The word lands like a mosquito, featherlight and piercing.Deal. We’re doing this.
“Sweetheart,” Willow says softly. Miller looks at her, something inscrutable passing between them. “Are you sure?”
